"Shit... it's cold," a man muttered, his voice laced with bitterness and frustration. His breath curled into the freezing air like faint smoke, vanishing in seconds. He was wrapped in thick, pale blue wool under layers of battered steel plates. His face, like the others, was mostly hidden beneath a fur-lined scarf and hood, only his tired eyes exposed.
A sword hung at his side, but every step through the snowstorm made it feel heavier. His boots, worn and patched, sank deep into the snow with each labored stride. The howling winds only grew stronger, gnawing at his limbs until his hands and feet were nearly numb.
"I told you we should've waited for the storm to calm down," another man grumbled, struggling to catch up. His face was likewise hidden under layers of rough wool, his body trembling visibly. Each step he took seemed more difficult than the last.
"Someone tell our esteemed young lord that," the first man snapped, glaring at the figure leading the group. His clothes were similar—blue wool, steel plates—but of much higher quality. Even his sword glinted faintly beneath the storm's gloom, clearly expensive. But despite his anger, the soldier knew better than to speak openly of rebellion. Even a whisper of disloyalty meant death.
"It can't be helped, can it? The only thing he sees right now is recognition from his father," a third soldier muttered from ahead of them. He was broader, more muscular than the others, but fatigue sagged his shoulders too. "Our lives? We're just tools to him."
The first soldier scoffed, shaking his head. "I should've chosen a different profession... Hey, why are you so quiet? Don't tell me you pi—"
He glanced behind, losing patience, only to find emptiness. Endless snow stretched in every direction.
"Hey, where is—?" He turned forward again. His friends had vanished too.
Confusion twisted his features, quickly replaced by fear as his heart pounded in his chest. He opened his mouth to call for the group leader, but before he could utter a word, a sword burst clean through his open mouth from behind. Blood sprayed the snow. The blade tilted upward, splitting his head in two.
"Young master, I think we should wait for the other soldiers," a man in his mid-thirties suggested. His deep voice carried through the storm as he walked beside the group's leader. His armor was better maintained than the common soldiers', polished steel chestplate over crimson wool lined with thick fur. The family crest—a monstrous creature, half-stallion, half-tiger, known as a Kaelron—was carved into the center of his armor, the beast's fangs bared, claws extended in a frozen snarl. Faint battle scars streaked across the metal, proof of hard-earned experience.
"Let them die. They're slowing us down anyway," the young noble replied coldly. His own armor gleamed beneath the swirling snow, adorned with intricate silver lines tracing the Kaelron's muscular form. His cloak, deep crimson with silver embroidery, billowed behind him, trimmed with southern beast fur. "If they can't keep up, they're useless in battle."
"It's still better to have them," another soldier argued, this one leaner, with messy blond hair peeking from beneath his hood. His armor was similar to the others but lighter, designed for speed over protection. "They may be weak, but scouts, night watchmen, even someone to cook—it adds up."
The young noble—Aster—shrugged, his eyes fixed ahead. "That would be true if we weren't racing the others. Too many hunters, one prey. The fastest claims the reward. The risk is worth it."
The others fell silent. But the blond soldier glanced back, his face softening as he realized the others hadn't caught up. A flicker of pity crossed his features—but only for a moment. He kept walking.
"The blood trail's still here. If we're right, they're nearby. The artifact's dead though," the muscular guard grunted, panting in the cold. Snow blanketed everything, but clutched in his gloved hand was a smooth, egg-shaped relic, etched with faint purple runes that pulsed weakly. Thin cracks splintered its surface—evidence it had been overused tracking their quarry.
Aster scanned both sides, then withdrew a small, metal device from his belt. It resembled a twisted wasp crossed with a lizard, crafted from gleaming alloys. Infusing it with aura, its tiny wings whirred to life—but the moment it lifted off, a crimson arrow ripped through it, shattering it midair.
Both guards stiffened, swords drawn, stepping in to shield Aster. Their eyes swept the white wasteland, every muscle tensed.
Three more arrows hissed through the storm, nearly simultaneous. The muscular guard ducked right, deflecting one with his sword, the second clanged off his shoulder—but the third buried itself deep in his abdomen. Blood spilled onto the snow.
From the peak above them, a lone figure emerged from the swirling white, crimson staining his stolen uniform. His eyes were empty, devoid of fear—cold as the storm itself.
Though the armor he wore bore their house's crest, it was clear from the blood dripping down his sleeves he'd killed the soldiers left behind to take it.
Aster stepped forward, pushing past his guards, narrowing his eyes.
"Damiond... What are you doing here?"
Damiond stared down, his expression unreadable, memories flashing behind his cold gaze.
"Aster. What a surprise," Damiond replied calmly, voice sharp as ice. "Though I suppose it's not unusual to stumble across prey when hunting... but this time, the roles have reversed